Broken Wings
by throughtheparadox
Summary: 12 unexplainable deaths seemed like Christmas to Sherlock Holmes. However, as he tried to analyse the situation at hand, he was greeted by a stranger whose story of a higher power turned the detective's world around.
1. Chapter 1

Twelve deaths. All of the victims are on London's missing persons list for the past 5 to 10 years, the autopsy results showed that 5 of the victims have been dead for a couple of years already and yet the bodies seemed to be in perfect condition.

Sherlock paced his flat, running his hands through his hair. This case was worth an 11, something very challenging and exasperating at the same time. These are obviously murders, however, how could the killer have done it? There are no traces of anything... Usually, Sherlock needed less than 2 minutes to figure out a crime scene but this- this is the case that Sherlock had dreamt of his entire life.

"Sherlock." He heard someone say. The detective turned and saw a man standing behind him, looking rather exhausted. By the looks of it, the man has rushed getting out of the house, looking at how he managed to put on his necktie in the wrong way. He is-was an sales clerk or an accountant, judging by his clothes and the condition of his hands and yet, he stopped. This man has been to fights- murdered some people even, seeing the traces of dried blood in his fingers and shoes. For some strange reason, Sherlock can see that his clothes and the overcoat the other man was wearing has not been changed for quite some time. Odd. Very odd.

"I need you help." said the man. Sherlock's eyebrows quirked up.

"Why would an American need my help? You're not the CIA. They dress better." Sherlock quipped, completely ignoring how the man came to his flat without him noticing-well, that does happen at times.

The man stared at Sherlock, nodding. "Of course you don't remember. How foolish of me."

"I don't like being at the other end of a mystery. Who are you?" Sherlock asked, his tone murderous.

The other man hesitated at first and then sighed. "My name is Castiel. I'm an angel of the Lord."

Unable to help himself, Sherlock laughed sarcastically. "Is this some pathetic attempt to lure me into religion? Mycroft has outdone himself."

Castiel hung his head to the side, trying to understand what Sherlock is getting at. "Did I say something to make you laugh? Time is of the essence here. Angels are dying and it must be stopped."

"Angels? Is that the best you can come up with? I don't suppose the next thing you'll tell me is that James Moriarty is back from the dead because a demon brought him back? How absurd." Sherlock spat.

To his surprise, Castiel nodded, no sign of dishonesty in the 'angel's' actions. "I'm afraid so."

"I don't have time for this." Sherlock replied, walking away from Castiel.

"Neither do I," the angel said, grabbing Sherlock by the arm and touching the detective's forehead.

The last thing Sherlock felt was a flash of light filling his eyes and the feeling of falling crushing every fiber of his being.

Pain.

It was all Sherlock could feel. His head was bursting with images-memories of the beginning of the Earth, the crashing and burning of nations, the Great Flood and the Fall. Everything was hazy like a static television screen. The burning sensation in his body radiated like wildfire, his veins bursting with unknown energy.

Disoriented, he tried to sit up and focus on Castiel.

"Brother," he heard himself say. Despite the fragments missing, Sherlock felt the truth surge through him. He was broken, shredded and cast out-a fallen angel.

Castiel helped him up and propped him against the chair. "It's been a while, Sherlock."

"Wha- what happened to me?"

"Everything seems like a blur now, I believe. Best to explain everything before we carry on." Castiel replied, sitting across him. "You were cast out when the archangels saw that you have qualities that Lucifer possessed. I don't suppose you remember but you were not just a soldier, you were a strategist and after Lucifer, despite the protests of the other soldiers including myself, you're Grace was ripped off and you were cast down to Fall; the possible explanation why you couldn't remember anything."

Sherlock nodded, remembering flashes of the archangels and his trial as Castiel spoke.

"They were afraid that, like your closest brother, you would turn over to Lucifer. You and your brother are the best strategists in Heaven and the archangels felt threatened especially after your brother's betrayal." Castiel added, his voice grave.

Sherlock shut his eyes hardly, trying to remember. "What brother?"

"Moriarty. Both of you were like Lucifer and Michael. Exemplary angels that had a very profound bond-a bond broken when you refused to join your brother and decided to fight alongside Michael." Castiel explained, his expression pained.

Sherlock was stunned. That would explain everything. The connection, the mind games, the sound of deep-rooted hatred when Moriarty said that he will burn the heart out of him... Slowly, everything started to fall into place.

'You're me.' He heard Moriarty's voice in his head.

"His vessel was James Richard Brook. I remember now. He took on a vessel to be able to lay out Lucifer's plans on Earth. That explains the murders and the corruption of criminal minds-the reason why he became a consulting criminal. I remember watching him while I was in Heaven." Sherlock replied, his voice cracking.

Castiel nodded. "The archangels saw that you still have affection for Moriarty. They feared that you will turn corrupt and join him. I realize that I have learned to care for Sam and Dean because I saw the bond you shared with Moriarty and the bond between Michael and Lucifer. I wanted to save them from ending up similarly to my dear brothers."

"Sam and Dean?" Sherlock asked, smiling. "We share the same weakness for humans now it seems."

Castiel nodded, returning the small smile. "We angels used to believe that humans are to be saved and yet..."

"...they are the ones keeping us right." Sherlock continued.

Both of them mulled over the thought, with Castiel letting Sherlock drink everything in. The detective didn't seem like he was not at ease but still, what lay ahead of them was unclear. Castiel hated that he would disturb the peace of his brother, to reconnect him to the complexities and pain that connotes Heaven and Hell and yet, he had no choice.

The impending doom is yet to come that may even be worse than the apocalypse... And he needed all the help he can get.


	2. Chapter 2

"Is there anything I can do to quicken your contemplation?" Castiel asked.

Sherlock remained silent, eyes focused on a distance, his hands folded under his chin. The angel sighed.

"Sherlock?"

To the angel's surprise, Sherlock jumped from his seat and impatiently swept off the clutter on his kitchen table. "Pass me a map! There's one on that shelf-and a pen! Quickly!" he shouted, the tip of his fingers pressing his temples, eyes shut and teeth gritting. Castiel laid out the Map of London on the table and handed Sherlock the pen. The detective grabbed it without looking and started marking the map with lines as swift as a blur.

"Kensington." Sherlock blurted, breathing heavily as if he ran a marathon. "The bodies were found in Abbots Langley, Theydon Bois, Crayford, the river near Woldingham, Heathrow airport, Central Middlesex Hospital, Kenswood House, Wimbledon station, London City airport and Brixton. If you connect all the places and observe the intersections it forms a pentagram whose heart is Kensington."

Castiel raised his eyebrows, both in understanding and in awe. "I knew I could rely on you, brother. Do you still remember how to use an angel blade?" he asked, drawing out the gleaming short sword from his coat sleeve.

Sherlock stared at the blade and reached out to take it, the weapon cold against his fingers. The detective felt the surge of memories fill him, all those days in battle, angel blood spilling on the courts of Heaven when Lucifer took his stand. He remembered that he was the one who ripped his own brother's wings with pain in his heart. This was why he hated the mere thought of sentiment-his immense care towards his brother caused Moriarty to rebel. Sherlock knew that he didn't want to outshine his brother, he wanted to protect him in becoming a heinous manipulator and yet his attempts backfired. Moriarty wanted to break free from him. His brother felt suffocated, disgusted, unimportant-Moriarty wanted a name of his own.

And now, he is the steward of the Greater Demons.

"I believe I can." Sherlock replied, remembering how easily he wielded a sword in Karachi to save Irene Adler.

"Very well. Do you think we can find out where exactly will Moriarty be raised?" Castiel asked.

Sherlock grew silent. There has to be something. A clue. Anything.

He tried to remember the names of the victims in order of death: Sylvia Bradstreet, Elsa Meadow, Karissa Maggs, Richard Stodden, Kenneth Pittmon, Martha Todd, Bea Reed, John Roscoe, Finigan Fletch, Victoria Secker and Albert Gadwood.

A story about Kensington... And then, everything fell into place.

"The last two victims, Victoria Secker and Albert Gadwood. They represent the names of Queen Victoria and her beloved Albert. They resided in Kensington palace where the Queen had her first council and where they raised their 9 children. This is Moriarty. There's always a puzzle involved and of course, he needed a place for royalty-something he believed he deserved. Clever!" Sherlock announced, leaving Castiel confused at his last remark.

"We need a plan." Castiel replied, recovering.

Castiel transported both him and Sherlock to the palace, both of them silently scanning the area for conspicuous activities. A new moon during the winter solstice, on the 13th day of the month, is needed to raise Lucifer's stewards-it was when the forces of the dark are strongest. And tonight is that fateful circumstance.

"We can't search the entire place. We will lose time. Where do you think will it happen?" Castiel mused.

Sherlock shut his eyes and tried to search his mind palace for answers. Somewhere extravagant, welcoming... Grand.

"The Grand Staircase." Sherlock replied, heading to the hall leading to the place he just dictated. Castiel followed, both of them with angel blades at hand.

When they reached the Staircase, the room was dark except for the small flicker of fire at the right side of the higher hall. Distracted, Sherlock and Castiel was caught off guard when someone lit where they were standing and the Holy Fire did its bidding.

"You came. Lovely! I'm Jenna, by the way. Huge fan, Mr. Holmes." said a woman in her late-30s, wearing a waitress's uniform.

"You can't trap him. He's not an angel. Just deal with me and let him go." Castiel pleaded, casting an apologetic look to Sherlock, who shook his head.

"Is it safe to say that you need something from us? But then again I'm always right." Sherlock replied calmly.

Jenna laughed. "Brilliant deduction, Mr. Holmes. However, it seems like you and Castiel did not think things through. You see, 12 deaths aren't enough. A 13th sacrifice has to be made."

In one swift movement, another demon grabbed Sherlock out of the circle, screeching with pain as the holy fire fed into his vessel's flesh. Jenna smites the demon after that, having no other use of him seeing how damaged he was from the fire. Two more demons grabbed hold of Sherlock, twisting his arm to get the angel blade. The detective yelped in pain as Jenna stabbed him in the abdomen.

"Stop! Why are you doing this? This is none of his concern anymore. He is human now!" Castiel begged, seeing the trickling blood coming from Sherlock's body.

Sherlock writhed in pain, whimpering when Jenna slashed on his arm. "Just kill me if that's what you want!" he spat.

"Oh no, dear. He would want to greet you when he returns. I only need your blood and this..." Jenna replied, taking out a small flask from her apron's pocket. It was glowing white, the content swirling like pure marble.

Sherlock's Grace.

"It can't be." Castiel breathed.

Sherlock looked up, his vision blurring. He couldn't feel his legs and he felt cold and numb. Searching the room for an idea, his eyes wandered of the flickering light they saw earlier. It was moving, its bearer walking down the staircase. Sherlock tried to squint, trying to see who it was. The figure seemed familiar to him, a sensation of fear growing inside him.

When the person reached the bottom of the staircase and went to him, the figure towering over his pained form, Sherlock found himself completely in denial when he saw the face studying him, a devilish smile stretched on that person's face.

"No. Not you..." Sherlock managed to say before he the room spun in his vision, his body giving in to the blood loss, his heart and mind shutting down as he saw the face of his captor.


	3. Chapter 3 Teaser

(A/N: hello everyone! I've been busy these past few days so I decided to release this teaser for Chapter 3. Enjoy! ^^)

"Expecting someone else, Sherlock? You could've been less surprised if you saw John or Lestrade or basically anyone because you think that the great Moriarty will sure hit you right in the gut." said their captor. "Didn't expect at all that it would be me." The devilish smile the person carried wasn't matching the subtle features, the soft presence, the identity that Sherlock knew. The person towered over Sherlock, kicking his chest and laughing maniacally.

"M-Molly." Sherlock breathed.

The pathologist laughed, her eyes flickering to black for a second. "Oh heaven's no! But no need to worry... Dear Molly is still locked in here somewhere, shouting for your name."

Sherlock's head was buzzing,the coldness taking over his body, his eyes drifting away slowly. He gathered every strength he has left to try to find out what happened to his dear friend.

"Wha-what have you d-done with her?" Sherlock managed, blood spluttering out his lips.

"When her fiancee left her, she was devastated. Her unrequited love for the great Sherlock Holmes caused her to choose a pathetic carbon copy of him and even that ended drastically. Poor soul, this one. All I have to do is visit her heartbreaking nightmare and-well, I managed to get a yes." replied Demon Molly.

"You cheated her." Castiel spat.

Molly turned to the angel, her grin growing wider. "In all technicalities, she said yes. I didn't cheat, I empathised."

"You got what you want with me. Let her go." Sherlock hissed, as he fell to his back, his clothes soaked in blood.

Molly leaned in closer, almost meeting Sherlock eye to eye. "She's screaming right now... Begging for me to heal you. How adorable."

"At least let me heal him." Castiel pleaded, almost burning himself in the fire.

"Tut tut, Cas. Just stay in your little angel circle and watch the show." Molly replied, laughing. She took out a small flask from her robe pocket and scooped a handful of Sherlock's blood, caressing the detective's wounded face haughtily.

"Don't sleep, love. You have a front-row ticket to your brother's return." The pathologist replied, healing Sherlock's stab wound and yet leaving him paralysed.

Sherlock and Castiel watched as Molly went up the stairs and went back to where they saw her playing with light. As she lit up black candles, the room was better illuminated and they saw a casket in the middle. Molly poured the contents of the flask and they heard her chant.

As she finished her spell, a figure started to stir from the casket. Stark naked, the figure rose from the casket, a devilish glint evident in his eyes.

"Did you miss me?"


End file.
